


Is It Me, For a Moment?

by TheNightComesDown



Category: The Who (Band)
Genre: 1970s, Classic Rock, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, The Who AU, The Who Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 03:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18957049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightComesDown/pseuds/TheNightComesDown
Summary: The week after Keith Moon's death, you finally deal with the tension that's been building between you and your brother Pete's bandmate, John.





	Is It Me, For a Moment?

**Author's Note:**

> Keith Moon's death is mentioned several times during this fic, but there is no actual death scene or anything like that. Events described are fictitious, and real people are fictionalized for the purpose of the story.

**SEPTEMBER 1978**

In the sitting room of your brother’s Twickenham house, you were curled up in the wingback chair that served as your reading space whenever you came to visit. Your young nieces, Emma and Minta, had gone to bed hours ago, and your brother and his wife had followed shortly after, physically and emotionally exhausted by the activities of the week. The circumstances of your visit weren’t ideal; your brother’s bandmate and long-time friend Keith Moon had died of an overdose the week before, so you had come to town to support Pete as he grieved, and to attend Keith’s funeral. 

The room was chilly, so you pulled the blanket on your lap higher, tucking it beneath your arms before moving on to the next chapter in your book. Like your brother, you handled grief in a way many found atypical. Your strategy was to try to understand and give meaning to death; as such, you found yourself reading a book authored by a physician who specialized in death and dying. It calmed you to learn that your friend had likely fallen asleep and passed without pain or awareness. 

While you and Keith hadn’t been particularly close friends, you still felt a hole in your heart now that he was gone. Really, you had grown up around your brother’s bandmates, and idolized them each in a different way. Instead of imitating Keith’s reckless behaviour, you had grown up to have a hearty laugh and a wicked sense of humour, both influenced by the late drummer. The two of you had gone to a number of comedy shows together over the years – there was a photo of the two of you at the Montréal Comedy Festival on Pete’s wall to prove it. 

Keith’s ridiculous laugh, sometimes a giggle, and other times an uproarious howl he’d never had to force, had been echoing through your thoughts all day and night since you’d received that fateful call from Pete. You hadn’t been sleeping well at all, but the knowledge that you’d see Keith in your dreams made the idea of giving in to your exhaustion almost unbearable. It was one thing to see photos and share stories about the man, but to wake up after your dreams had you convinced that this was all some sort of cruel joke was too much. 

A shadow in the sitting room doorway shifted in your peripheral vision, drawing your gaze from the book in your lap. You looked up from your page to see Pete’s close friend of 20 years, _Who_ bassist John Entwistle, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes, rimmed in red, were trained on far wall, but it was clear from his glassy expression that he was a million miles away. You cleared your throat to let him know you were in the room, but he didn’t seem to hear you at first. 

“John, are you alright?” you asked gently, finally catching his attention. He blinked hard and shook his head to clear whatever thoughts were spinning around beneath his skull, invisible to everyone but himself. His eyes met yours, devoid of any light or life. If he were to take a few steps across the room, he might have fallen right over; he’d been drinking alone in the kitchen since your brother had gone to bed, doing his best to respect Pete’s latest attempt to kick the bottle. 

“Hmm?” John replied, his eyes settling on you. When he noticed the book in your hand, with your thumb tucked between the pages to save your spot, he frowned apologetically. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Was just headed home, anyways.” He turned back towards the hall to leave the room, but you called after him, not wanting him to leave. Out of all the band members, John had been closest to Keith. He wasn’t able to voice the pain he was feeling, and instead of grieving alongside his bandmates, John was relying on alcohol and other substances to keep himself upright – as counterintuitive as that seemed to you, it appeared to be working. 

“You should stay here tonight, John,” you urged him. “There’s plenty of space, and no reason to leave.” When his icy blue eyes met yours, you held his gaze, hoping that he would listen to your suggestion. “Maybe it’s best not to be on your own just now.” This came out quieter than your previous words. It was not an order, but a pleading request to stay within reach of those that could help if things became too much for him to bear alone. 

“Don’t want to be a bother,” John mumbled, shuffling across the room to sit on the piano bench. “Busy enough around here as it is.” He narrowly avoided tripping over a rug, and his words were beginning to slur together, if you listened closely. 

“Pete wouldn’t mind at all,” you promised. “And neither would Karen, if that’s the issue.” All of your brother’s close friends knew, as you did, that his marriage had been significantly strained over the past few years, and you all did your best to avoid upsetting his wife, especially since Pete himself did it so often. This week, however, Karen had set aside her frustrations with your brother, and was playing the part of the calm and collected wife. She knew what such a loss meant for her husband, and for both Roger and John as well; the three of them had watched a brother spiral into an inescapable tangle, and the last thing she wanted was to watch any of the remaining boys to follow suit. 

“Where d’you think would Karen want me to settle in?” he inquired, taking a peek at his wristwatch. It was well past midnight by now, and because John had never learned to drive, he would have to call and wait for his own driver if he were to return home now. His best option was as you’d suggested: finding a place to sleep off the exorbitant amount of gin he’d thrown back over the last two hours. 

You set your book down on the end table and folded the blanket over the arm of your chair before joining him in the doorway. John’s clothes, usually meticulously selected and styled to suit his own personal tastes, had seen better days, you thought to yourself. His joggers had holes in the knees, and his plain t-shirt had a permanent bleach stain near the side seam. How he’d managed to leave the house in this was beyond you. 

“Minta’s room is free, as she’s been sharing with Emma,” you murmured softly, hoping your volume was low enough so as not to disturb Pete and Karen. “Or there’s the sofa – I can make up a bed quickly.” John grunted in response, which you took to mean that he’d appreciate if you’d pitch a few blankets out in the sitting room. As much as he loved your little nieces, he probably didn’t want to sleep in Minta’s twin bed, which was likely chockfull of stuffed animals. 

When you went to the hall linen cupboard to fetch sheets, the spare quilt, and a pillow, John trailed behind you, wanting to be helpful. When you turned back towards the sitting room, John couldn’t move quickly enough to get out of your way, so you bumped into him straight on. He caught you by your shoulders and steadied you, preventing you from falling to the floor. 

“Easy there,” he cautioned, giving your upper arms a firm squeeze. John’s face was inches from your own, and you could smell the gin on his breath. “’M not tired just yet. There’s no rush, so slow down.” You nodded and clutched the linens tighter, trying to keep your heart from jumping out of your chest. Even drunk, John managed to have a magnetic effect on you. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, pushing past him. Despite his assurance that he wasn’t yet tired, you worked quickly and efficiently to set up a place for him to sleep, just a few feet from where you’d spent the past few hours reading. In fact, you had planned on spending several more hours there as well – there was no way you were going to fall asleep yet. 

The air had managed to cool down significantly since dinner, and you determined that Pete must have adjusted the thermostat before he and Karen retired for the night. Without a cardigan over your t-shirt, you began to shiver as you tucked the sheets beneath the cushions of the sofa. The smooth warmth of leather enveloped you as John slipped his jacket over your shoulders. 

“Oh, it’s alright,” you protested, grabbing the collar to pull it off. John stopped you by taking the lapels in his hands and holding them tightly together, trapping you in a musky leather cocoon. 

“Just wear it,” he insisted, staring down the bridge of his nose at you. “Make me feel like I’m returning the favour.” You found your own eyes flickering down to look at his calloused thumbs, which still clutched the fabric of his jacket in his hand; your instincts told you to press a kiss to each hand. The logical part of your brain forbade it, however, reasoning that it could lead to nothing good. After all, you’d nearly made the same mistake earlier in the week. 

“You should get some rest,” you told John, keeping your gaze trained on the floor beside the sofa. “Probably another long day tomorrow.” He remained silent, but after a moment, released you from his grasp. You weren’t sure what to make of this little interaction, nor of the countless other chance meetings you and John had experienced in the last two weeks. Maybe it was grief, you reasoned. Sadness made people act in funny ways. 

While John stretched out on the sofa, you crossed the room and flicked the main light switch, casting the room into darkness but for the reading lamp above the sofa. The corners of your mouth curved downward in an annoyed frown when you realized that there wouldn’t be enough light to continue reading in the armchair. The lamp above John’s head couldn’t easily be moved, so you were out of luck. 

With a sigh, you decided that maybe if you closed your eyes and did your best to quiet your mind, sleep might come along at some point. You were sceptical that it would be a success, especially when your mind had been so busy all day, but thought it was worth a try. However, when you attempted to leave the room and let John have some peace and quiet, you were met with great displeasure. 

“You’re not leaving me, are you?” John growled, furrowing his thick eyebrows. He sat up on the sofa planted his feet on the floor, resting his crossed arms on his knees. 

“I certainly am,” you replied, snatching up your book from where you’d set it down on the coffee table. “I can’t sleep in that chair, my back would be a right mess if I did.” John’s expression remained dark; he didn’t like your excuse. 

“I can budge up, make some room here,” he said gruffly, his voice like gravel. He sounded perturbed, but you also sensed an unfamiliar vulnerability in his tone. You hesitated in the doorway, thinking about how smart it was of John, choosing to be amongst friends instead of isolating himself after losing Keith – he didn’t want to be alone. 

“John, I can’t,” you hissed. “If Pete came down…” You waited a moment longer, and when John made no response, you decided to leave the room for good. No take-backs, no changing your mind. John would be fine on the sofa, and would probably fall asleep quickly, especially with the amount of gin running through his system at the moment. As soon as your foot creaked against the hardwood floor of the hallway, you heard a pitiful voice cry out behind you. 

“Y/N, I need you,” John croaked. “Please don’t leave me.” 

Your heart shattered instantly, and before you could count to three, you were curled up against John’s chest, with your arms wrapped around his neck. His body shook as he cried, and thankfully for the other people in the house, your shirt muffled his sobs. It would have been an odd sight, had Pete or Karen come downstairs to grab a glass of water, but as you held him, you realized what you’d been hiding from all this time – John cared deeply for you, and you for him, and the thought was frightening. 

After a few minutes, John’s eyes went dry, and in place of tears, he whispered the words he’d been holding onto for a week, now – everything he wished he had said to Keith, but never had the chance. 

“I told him I loved him all the time, but do you think he knew I meant it? That he was a brother to me and more?” 

“I’m positive he knew, love,” you comforted him, lacing your fingers into his dark hair. “Keith loved you, too. He didn’t mean to leave us.” As he continued to mumble on, it became more and more clear to you that John felt he had failed his friend; he was holding onto guilt, and it was eating him inside. While you were happy to be beside him and be a listening ear, you knew that in the morning, you’d need to confront him and direct him to a professional, who could help him tackle these immensely difficult emotions. John had a soft heart, and you didn’t want to see him harden because he was unable to grieve his friend in a healthy way. 

When the two of you had been quiet for some time, you turned away from John and faced the door into the hallway. His right arm was beneath your neck, and his left was slung over your hip, holding you protectively. John’s breath was warm in your ear, and he muttered and snorted in his sleep once or twice, as he was apt to do, according to your brother. Once you were sure he was truly asleep, you whispered the words you’d been too afraid to say to him before: 

“I love you. I promise we’ll be alright, eventually.” Out of nowhere, John’s hold on you tightened, and he replied with a drowsy affirmation. Clearly, you’d misjudged his ability to fake being sleep. 

“It won’t always hurt like this,” he yawned, nuzzling his bearded chin against the back of your neck. “Keith knew I loved him. Knew I loved you, too.” John spoke no more that night, but his gentle snoring created the perfect ambient noise for you to fall asleep, which you did less than a half hour later. _If only Keith were here to see this_ , you thought in your last waking moments. _He tried to set us up for years._ Even from heaven, Keith was watching over his brothers. 

* * * * * 

Early the next morning, Pete was awoken by his blonde blur of a child, who raced through his bedroom door and catapulted herself onto his stomach. Karen was asleep beside him, and little Aminta, now 7 years old, wanted her father to be awake _immediately_. She felt there was something he _needed_ to see. 

“Minta, darling,” Pete protested, stifling a yawn, “it’s not even 6:30 yet. Can it wait until Mum and I are a bit more…awake?” With a exasperated sigh, Minta grabbed her father’s hand and tugged hard. 

“Uncle John is still here,” she whispered frantically. “Da, you’ve got to get up, RIGHT NOW.” Pete’s eyes shot open, and he threw the bedcovers off himself. John had been in rough shape last night, but Pete had assumed that he’d call his driver for a lift home. If he was still in the house, and Minta was adamant he get out of bed, could something terrible have happened in the night? Pete’s thoughts raced, and he nearly tripped down the stairs in pursuit of his daughter. When they reached the hallway outside the sitting room, Minta turned on her father and held a finger to her lips, bidding him to stay quiet. Confused, Pete peeked his head around the doorframe, and found himself utterly confused by what he saw. 

“What the fuck?” he said under his breath. Minta slapped his leg angrily, and looked up at him with a scathing expression. 

“Mummy says that’s a curse word,” she hissed. Her tiny attitude had Pete raising his eyebrows. “No cursing, Da.” 

“Sorry, love,” he apologized, affectionately mussing her hair with the palm of his hand. “Just…surprised.” The beginnings of morning sunlight were shining through the sitting room window, casting golden beams of light over the snoozing couple curled up together on the sofa. Pete blinked hard, wondering if maybe he was just seeing things wrong. 

“I didn’t know Uncle John and Auntie Y/N were married,” Minta commented, also puzzled by the pair. She was still trying to wrap her head around relationships, and marriage was her only frame of mind – if her mother and father shared a bed and were married, surely John and Y/N must be as well. 

“Maybe they were waiting to tell us until a better time,” Pete told her, trying to come up with an explanation fit for a child Minta’s age. After another moment of standing by her father’s side, she lost interest in her relatives’ love lives, and set off to rummage through the refrigerator for a bit of yoghurt and some fruit to eat for breakfast. Pete remained glued to his spot in the doorway of the sitting room, staring at the two people he’d never, even for a moment, imagined together. There was no other explanation for the intimate display before him. 

Y/N, wearing a pair of pyjama shorts and a plain t-shirt, was tucked up against John. One of his arms served as her pillow, and the other had found its resting place over her hip, with his hand against the skin of her belly. Her top had crept up slightly when she shifted in her sleep, and John’s large hand had likely provided some warmth. The blanket had been folded back to cover only their legs, which were intertwined beneath it, out of view of curious onlookers. Ignoring the sound of footsteps on the stairs behind him, Pete scratched at his chin thoughtfully. He was thinking through the events of the week, trying his best to remember whether he’d noticed anything between his sister and John. 

The more he thought about it, the more the pairing made sense. They were both fun-loving but introverted, pragmatic yet capable of losing themselves in their daydreams. Even the seemingly opposite aspects of their personalities could fit well together. John was patient in situations where Y/N tended to have little, and she would act as a balance with her thoughtfulness in the moments where John had failed to think through his actions. 

“Well, would you look at that,” Karen exclaimed softly, joining her husband in the doorway. “I’ve had a niggling feeling that something was different between them now, but this is…” she trailed off. 

“A surprise, to say the least,” Pete answered, keeping his voice down and his tone even. He was doing his best to remain calm about this whole affair. After all, his sister was only 5 years younger than John, and had known him her entire adult life; they weren’t strangers by any means. And if anyone understood the life of a touring musician, it was Y/N – she had been a great support to Karen when _The Who_ was across the ocean, performing night after night to exuberant crowds. She could handle John, Pete knew, even though his friend had tendencies toward dabbling with drink and pills and loose women. 

John’s bearded face was tucked into the crook of Y/N’s neck, and Pete was amazed that his sister hadn’t awoken to his occasional snoring, with his mouth so close to her ear. After such an emotionally draining week, though, it made sense that the two continued to sleep through the rattling of the children in the kitchen, as well as the poorly hushed whisperings of their adult audience. Pressing a kiss to her husband’s shoulder, Karen pulled Pete towards the kitchen in the hopes that he would help her prepare something for their houseguests to eat for breakfast whenever they awoke for the day. 

As Pete flipped pancakes on the electric griddle and Karen scrambled a large frying pan of eggs, the oldest of their daughters, 9-year-old Emma, appeared in the kitchen doorway with an excited expression on her face. 

“I knew it!” she shouted, causing her mother to jump and nearly knock the frying pan off the element. 

“About the pancakes?” Pete asked, glancing over his shoulder at the girl. “Of course you did. I’m sure you can smell the blueberries from your room, Em.” Taking after her father’s sarcastic nature, Emma rolled her eyes and let out a heavy sigh. 

“No, Da. I knew Uncle John and Auntie Y/N were together. I just _knew_ it!” 

“And how could you know such a thing?” Karen asked sceptically, wiping the bits of undercooked egg from the countertop with a dishrag. “Your father and I didn’t know until this morning.” Emma crossed her arms and a playful smirk extended across her face. 

“Can’t tell,” she said vaguely. “Uncle Keith told me it was a secret.” Pete and Karen exchanged a look of confusion, but Emma plopped down at the table without elaborating. She snatched a piece of pancake from her sister’s plate, and her parents became immediately distracted by trying to prevent Minta from stabbing Emma through the eye with her fork. Their shrieks, plus Karen’s calls for order, managed to wake Y/N, who had spent years clambering out of bed to answer her screaming nieces’ pleas for food or attention. 

Once the pancake situation had been sorted, with Pete tossing a slightly overcooked round onto Emma’s plate, no one remembered the girl’s odd comment – neither Pete nor Karen would inquire again, so both would fail to learn that her father’s bandmate, the man who had served as Emma and Minta’s eccentric but loving uncle, had visited her in a dream the previous night. 

By the time Y/N and John joined the Townshends in the kitchen for breakfast, they had both already showered and brushed their teeth for the morning. John had scrounged up some clothes of Pete’s from an open drawer in his friend’s bedroom, and Y/N had changed into a lovely floral dress, which both Minta and Emma fawned over. Pete took his place beside his bandmate at the table and leaned towards him to share a private conversation. 

“So, my sister, yeah?” Pete inquired, his expression stoic. John nodded, not betraying any emotion in his short answer. 

“Seems that way,” he nodded. 

“Alright then,” Pete acknowledged, reducing his volume so none of the women would hear him. “Try not to break her heart. And if you give her the clap or something else because you’ve been fucking around on tour, you can bet I’ll have something to say about it. You might be one of my best mates, but she’s my fucking sister.” 

“Understood,” John said, biting the insides of his cheeks to keep his mouth straight. 

“What?” Pete asked, sensing his friend was holding something back. 

“Oh, nothing,” John shrugged nonchalantly. “Was just thinking about all those times we used to joke around together; you, me, Rog and Keith.” 

“And?” Pete asked, narrowing his eyes. “What about it?” 

“Well, it’s not such a joke anymore – me fucking your sister – is it?” John said, now failing to keep the smirk from his lips. Pete would have decked him if John hadn’t had good reflexes, and the thought to quickly throw his arms over his face. Pete and John might be getting into their upper 30’s now, but neither man was done poking at the other with a well-timed joke. Pete didn’t stop trying to land a smack to John’s face until Karen reprimanded him for rough-housing at the table. 

Once he’d regained his composure, Pete settled into his chair and regarded his friend seriously. He gave John’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze, and leaned over to kiss his friend’s temple. For any other person, this would have been very odd – but as long-time friends of Keith Moon, both men had learned to get comfortable with physical displays of affection between friends. 

“You know, John-boy,” Pete said finally, “Keith would have thought that joke was a real howler.” John nodded, and released a heavy sigh. 

“Wish he were with us to hear it,” he said softly. 

“Me too, John,” Pete hummed. “Me, too.” 

* * * * * 

**45 minutes earlier**

Your eyes jolted open at the sound of your bickering nieces, who were seated at the kitchen table less than 25 feet from you. The scent of warm blueberries and maple syrup were a good indication that Pete, Karen, or both had already passed by you and John that morning, and that fact set you on edge. 

“John,” you murmured, struggling to turn around in the man’s strong grip. “John, wake up.” The sleepy man tucked behind you released an unhappy groan, having been disturbed in the middle of a very nice dream involving you in a lovely, low-cut dress he’d recently spied in a shop window on Oxford Street. You managed to turn your body to face him, while still remaining in his warm, comforting hold. His fingers twitched against your lower back, appreciating the heat of your skin. 

John’s chin-length black hair was dishevelled, as it was every morning when he awoke. You reached up and attempted to pat it down, to absolutely no success. A sweet little smile spread over John’s lips, and he tilted his head forward to press a chaste “good morning” kiss to your forehead. 

“Aren’t you a sight to behold?” he mused. It was like a dream come true, having you be the first thing he saw in the morning. 

“Oh, hush now,” you scolded teasingly. “You can have a look at me in a few minutes, once we’ve explained _this_ whole situation to my brother.” You wiggled in his grasp, indicating that you and he were the situation. 

“Well, he hasn’t hit me over the head with a golf club yet, so he can’t be that upset about it,” John smiled. “Not that a golf club would deter me from an angel such as yourself.” You rolled your eyes, and made a sad attempt rise from the sofa and pull John up with you. 

“None of that sweet talk now, Mr. Entwistle,” you told him seriously. “Now, we eat pancakes, and promise my brother that we didn’t get drunk and shag on his sofa.” 

“Did we not?” John asked, raising an eyebrow suggestively. “I can arrange for that, if you like. I’ve got a half bottle of gin left over from last night, and the girls seem occupied by whatever Karen’s got cooking in the kitchen.” You smacked his arm, and he let out a yelp mixed with a laugh. 

“Keep it in your trousers until we’re out of Pete and Karen’s sitting room,” you chastised him. John groaned in mock disappointment. For now, he thought, all he needed was to keep you within arm’s reach, so he could continue to pepper your skin with kisses when your nieces weren’t looking. A naughty thought crossed his mind when you stood from the sofa and readjusted your shirt so it would cover all your important bits – and John began to laugh under his breath. 

“What now?” you groaned, regarding him with a weary look. John stretched his arms high above his head before joining you in an embrace in the centre of the sitting room. His hands travelled down your back, and he slipped them beneath the hem of your shirt so he could trail his fingers across the soft skin of your back. 

“Well, I’m sure we can reheat those pancakes in a few minutes,” John began, “but first, I really think we should get cleaned up.” 

“Oh?” you asked, your tone rising curiously. 

“We wouldn’t want our beloved nieces to see us looking such a mess,” he continued, keeping his expression neutral. “Really, I’d say we’ll need a good, long shower to get properly washed up. Half an hour, at the least, don’t you think?” 

“You’re insufferable,” you laughed, trying to maintain the frown you’d been sporting. John’s calloused fingers travelled to the sides of your belly, and as he began to tickle you mercilessly, your legs gave out beneath you, and you dragged him onto the sitting room floor in a fit of giggles. Your laughter grew strained as John began to trail hot, needy, open-mouthed kissed down your throat and neck. By the time his lips reached the bottom of the deep v of your shirt’s neck, John had you begging for that shower. 

**Author's Note:**

> I just love a good Enty x Reader fic, so thanks for reading!


End file.
